


the young lion and the fatling together

by slashsailing



Series: Game of Thrones AU [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Amputation, Attempted Murder, Dubious Consent, F/M, Forced Marriage, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Mutilation, Royalty, Sexual Content, True Love, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 07:39:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1771069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashsailing/pseuds/slashsailing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Game of Thrones AU</p><p>When a Dothraki khalasar threaten to sack King's Landing, George Kirk does what he must by offering his youngest son's hand in marriage in the hopes of an alliance. Jim may not want to marry the Khal, but Leo proves himself to be much more than a mere savage. Soon enough, though, Jim will learn that marriage is the least of his problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the young lion and the fatling together

"How did they get here?" Winona demands, screaming across the Great Hall. "Why would they cross the Narrow Sea?"

"Their lands have turned barren, your Grace. They come here to raid. For food, for women…"

" _Kill them_ ," she grits out. "Every last one."

"They outmatch us, your Grace."

"How do we stop them?"

"We offer them everything— _anything_. We offer so they do not have to take."

—

The meadow is filled with pink-tinged daisies. They mark the coming summer. A summer James Kirk, son of King George, is eager to see. He sets down his book to paw at the grass, feeling the blades, warm and dry, between his fingers. This winter has been a long one—a harsh one—filled with dark days and even darker nights; there has been rain and wind and snow, gales that shook the stone walls of the castle and shook the water from the river banks. Jim is glad to see it has passed. He is glad to breathe in warm air once more.

The meadow is far more beautiful in summer.

A chill lingers in the air still, no doubt of it, but the sun shines bright in the morning sky: buttery yellow like the hair of his forefathers, like his own hair. Jim takes up his book again; it is one of many he currently keeps on his person. It’s about a knight who strays over the Wall. Jim doesn’t like his chances, but he’ll read on and see.

"Prince James," Lord Pike calls across the meadow, urging Jim towards him with frantic gestures and panic contorting his every word. "We must get you inside. It is not safe."

Jim doesn’t know what’s going on. He’s seventeen and no one tells him anything, he's the second son, why would they? They consider him too young—too foolish—even though he has taught himself to wield and bow and ride a horse. He was a weak child— _frail_ —and, even though he has grown tall, he still remains skinny and waifish. They do not trust him. With what? Jim isn’t sure. But they do not afford him with the same respect and responsibilities they afford his older brother Sam. Sam, who jousts and drinks and plans to lead the Kirk army one day and sit on the Kirk Throne. Samuel, Prince and Heir.

Christopher Pike, the King’s Hand, ushers Jim through the courtyard and back inside the safety of the castle, leading him through the maze of heavy stone until they reach the Great Hall. The Hall is crowded in a manner unlike anything Jim has ever seen. He cannot recall such mayhem; his father would never usually allow it.

"Silence!" George roars over the commotion, his voice crashing through the confusion like an ice-cold wave. The room falls into a hush, every pair of eyes set upon their King. "The Dothraki are coming. They have reached our shores and they march upon King’s Landing. They care not for our civilisation; they care not for Court and society. They pillage and plunder. They burn through the villages and they intend to rob us of our lives as well as our stock. Unless we can stop them."

"Raise our armies!" a man shouts from among the crowd.

Jim finds himself nodding. They must defend themselves; they must _fight_. When Jim looks over to the man who spoke he can see the heads around him nodding in unison. The people call for war. The King must answer; Jim can see no other way for his father to move.

"And fine armies they are. But even if I could muster every man in all of Westeros and have them here within the night it would not be a match for the Dothraki horde. It seems they have sailed here because their crop is failing. Their grass of the Dothraki Sea sours and they come here in search of hope. They will not be leaving until they have found it," George explains. "So we must help them in their search."

"How?" another voice—a young woman—calls out.

"I will meet with their Khal. I will talk with them. And I will see what it is they desire."

"Roll over and beg, you mean!" another voice yells in outrage.

"You would accuse your King of begging?" George snarls. "You would compare him to a mutt with mange wandering the forest?" The owner of the voice looks down; his shoulders tremble. "The Dothraki are forty thousand strong. They outmatch our men. Why fight and die when we can stand together and live? Why make an enemy when we stand to gain an ally?" George poses the question with a devious glint in his eye. The crowd inhales collectively and watches in awe as the King sits back in his throne, proud and strong.

It seems there is nothing left to discuss. The King’s decision is not up for debate.

—

The Khal is younger than Jim expected him to be, but he is broad and bare-chested. Walking into the hall, the man seems to stand seven feet tall even though Jim knows that is an impossible height, even for a Dothraki warlord. His skin is dark from the attentions of the sun and from the dust on the ground, his hair is darker still.

"They wear their hair long," Jim whispers to Christopher in confusion.

"The Dothraki keep their braid until they lose a battle; then it is cut from their head as a mark of their shame. The Khal’s braid is long," Christopher notes, giving Jim a significant look.

"He has never lost," Jim surmises.

"Do you speak the common tongue, Dothraki?" George asks over the vast chasm of space that lies between the throne and the entrance to the Great Hall where the Khal and his most trusted men stand.

"I am not barbaric," the Khal counters. His drawl is rough, as barren and stark as the lands of Essos are now purported to be. Jim thinks a man could slit a throat with words spoken with as much gravel as the Khal speaks his. "You rose a white flag. I am told you wish to offer up supplies."

"As much as pleases your men." George inclines his head respectfully and stands. "And I wish to broach the subject of an alliance."

"My men are not easily pleased," the Khal admits, stepping closer. He strides across the hill in broad paces, slicing through the throng of people like a warm knife into butter. The man’s movements remind Jim of the lion that stands roaring on the Kirk sigil. He is lithe and graceful but beholden to so much power. He is a regal creature that is unable to shake the violence from his bones—unable to clean the blood from his teeth and his nails. He frightens Jim, but he also intrigues him. "And the Dothraki do not forge alliances with Westerosi kings."

Jim has never heard _king_ spoken with such venom. He has never heard _king_ spoken as a slur.

"There is much we could offer your people in this time of need."

"Nothing we could not take." The Khal sneers, scoffing in the face of the King's hospitality. The Khal raises a hand; he appears ready to order an assault on the nobles, until he catches sight of Jim’s eyes on him, unwavering and curious. The Khal pauses and frowns, before lowering his hand. "Your son?" He wonders, only glancing back at the King for a second before his eyes are retrained on Jim.

"My youngest."

"A head full of gold," the Khal whispers, in awe, perhaps. "A rich blessing."

George’s eyes widen and he looks to Jim. All words have been stolen from him. Jim sees in his father’s eyes that George knows what he must do. Blessings are given to Khals as a sign of respect. Whether it be a hundred slaves, five hundred gold pieces or a whore-house worth of virgins, blessings are gifts and they buy peace and freedom from the Dothraki arakh. Blessings are a gesture of goodwill, they mark the joining of houses and the forging of alliances.

Jim also sees fear and regret in his father’s eyes.

And sorrow.

"Fit for a King," George agrees quietly. "Or a Khal."

"George, no!"

" _Winona_ ," George warns.

"Not my son. Not to these savages," Winona hisses, but not quietly.

The Khal sniffs. “We can certainly _act_ like savages if it so pleases. Perhaps your wife would like a taste of our barbarism?” he offers, as if it were a polite courtesy.

"She worries for her son, as all mothers do." George glares his wife into a silence that she refuses to submit to.

"He’s just a boy. _Please_ , George."

"James," George calls, gentle but firm.

Jim rises from his perch on the step below his father’s throne and half-turns towards the King—refusing to turn his back on either King or Khal. Jim tries to keep his breathing steady, looks down at the rise and fall of his chest before his gallantly lifts his chin. He is scared, yes, but there is no point railing in front of the man that looks to be his new master.

"He is worth more than mere slavery," George says, looking over Jim’s shoulder at the Khal.

"You can supply us with others for slavery. Your son is noble of blood. I respect blood." The Khal strides irrevocably closer, a mere step lower than the one Jim stands upon. "I respect beauty," he murmurs.

"We have whores in abundance," George grits out, clenching his fists.

"Whores do not interest me.” The Khal sneers, flaring his nostrils in distaste. “ _James_ ," he whispers, tasting the sound on his tongue. Nodding in approval. "James. You will be my Khaleesi," he says, easily. Too easily.

Jim feels as if a cage has crashed down around him. He is trapped like a field mouse under a metal bar. Tears prick at his eyes, leaving them even bluer than usual. Endearing him evermore to his new suitor.

The Khal’s men murmur amongst themselves until their leader turns to stare them down. He barks at them in a tongue Jim doesn’t understand but assumes to be their native Dothraki. The Khal’s men quiet, they seem convinced by whatever he has said to them. Jim’s spine tingles with dread and horror.

"Please," he whispers, looking from his father to his mother.

"Be brave, my son," George whispers.

"To be taken as Khaleesi is a great honour," one of the Dothraki snarls. "You should be grateful."

"Enough," the Khal says, raising two fingers of his hand. "We are united now," he continues, "by blood. My people and yours. Winter is coming in Essos and so my people will remain here—in peace and good will—until your summer passes. Then we will return home."

"We will ready the cas—"

"We are tribesmen," the Khal counters. "We will ready our camp, although soon we will again take to your roads. I will send for you," the Khal says, turning to Jim and chuffing out a breath. Sounding like the horses these men saddle. "I expect you to be ready."

—

Jim is permitted to pack his entire life into a single trunk. He has his bow and a quiver of arrows, he has a dagger, he has his books. His father folds a velvet cloak over the weaponry and tells him to be careful. A matching cloak is offered to the Khal’s entourage when they come to collect Jim from the castle doors.

He is taken to a tent. There is horse meat on a plate and a goblet of bitter mead beside it. Jim ignores both. Instead, he climbs into the raised platform that he supposes serves as a bed—it is swamped in voile and exotic silk—and he sobs.

—

Jim doesn’t see the Khal until the day of the wedding—three days after his arrival at the Dothraki camp—and while Jim doesn’t mind not having to face his betrothed, he thought the man might make an effort to acquaint himself with Jim. Instead, Jim is left in the company of his two servant women. They, unlike many of the women Jim has seen going to and from the Dothraki tents, are modestly covered and they speak the common tongue well. They will be his waiting ladies and while they serve him he shall want for nothing.

Nothing except his freedom.

They are good women though; they are fair and kind and they help him understand the khalasar and their leader. Apparently the Khal has had urgent business that he must attend to and although the women make guesses as to what this business might entail, they cannot say for sure.

So Jim must wait. He must be trussed up in fine fabrics, looking a mix of his Kirk heritage and his Dothraki future, and led out among the camp. He is sat in a delicately carved, wooden throne—facing inwards, away from the cliffs—and watches as women dance around a fire. But mostly he waits, until the sun has risen to the centre of the sky and the Khal returns. The man dismounts his horse and looks even more towering than he did when he stood before the King in the Great Hall.

His men, the four riders he took with him on his errand, each hold the silver foot of a heavy-looking, mahogany ottoman.

"A gift," one of Jim’s women whispers from her perch below him on the grass. She sounds excited.

Jim could not be more terrified.

The Dothraki men unclasp and lift up the lid of the trunk. But Jim cannot see inside it. Perhaps he is meant to stand, to look inside the mouth of the ottoman and receive his gift with words of adoration and thanks. Or perhaps he is required to sit and wait. The stories his ladies have told him of the Khaleesi way make Jim inclined to suspect the latter. So he remains seated. He waits for the Khal to step forward, digging his hand into the trunk which looks so empty.

Jim hears the sound of an unimpressed animal. Jim balks at the idea of a sacrifice in his honour. His stomach does not turn at bloodshed, although he does not wish to bear witness to it unnecessarily.

But, as his mother said, these men are savages.

The creature mewls, like an angry kitten. Jim’s eyes snap up to the Khal just as the man lifts a lion cub out of the ottoman by the scruff of its neck.

Jim’s not sure whether or not he’s still breathing. The lion cub is placed in his lap with little finesses and Jim feels the prick of claws catch against his thighs. Jim sets a hand on either side of the cub’s flank and pulls it onto his lap more securely. When Jim looks up he is met with the hopeful eyes of his Khal. His eyes are not dark brown like the rest of his kin, no; they are a myriad of colours. Gold and emerald, amber and onyx. They have the rich colour of soil swirled with orange sunsets. Jim’s lungs are left empty once again.

The cub nips at the Khal’s forearm but the man does not seem to notice.

"Your people wear the banner of lions," the Khal says, his voice soft and rough as the same time. It sends a shiver down Jim’s spine. "The Dothraki do not treasure banners."

It’s all he says, but Jim thinks it might be all the Khal needed to say. Jim understands. This cub is completely his, and it is a token of Jim’s home, of his family.

The cub does not bite Jim; he sits well-behaved on Jim’s lap and growls at the Dothraki men who kneel before Jim and offer him a whip, then a bow, and finally a traditional curved blade. Jim knows he must refuse them all, even though the bow is beautiful. Each item is set among the Khal’s things, instead, and Jim is left to watch on as the festivities of his wedding continue.

He watches as women are taken in the middle of the grass like animals, mounted like stray bitches in heat. He watches as men fight over their warm bodies, slicing throats and braids and remounting the women as if nothing astray has happened.

Ten braids are cut before dusk falls. Jim’s wedding will be considered a success.

All that is left now is to consummate it.

—

The soil, surprisingly soft under Jim's knees, brings him no relief as he looks out over the cliff face. The sound of festivities fall silent now, the great fire extinguished and everyone now returned to their own tents. Night falls, but it is not so dark that Jim cannot see the man who walks naked around him, surveying the waters below. Jim trembles, but the ocean breeze is not to blame.

"Lean forwards," the Khal commands, "on your hands."

"I don’t even know your name," Jim realises, tears welling up in his eyes.

"Leo," he whispers, suddenly knelt behind Jim, pushing him forward with a hot hand at the base of his spine. Jim can feel the Khal’s hardness press against him, and a tear rolls down his cheek. "In my tongue, it means lion-lover. I knew I was supposed to have you, the moment I saw you. Look at you," he whispers. "Golden mane."

The Khal leans forward to kiss Jim’s nape before pressing his forehead in between Jim’s shoulder blades.

"Relax," the Khal advises—or commands, Jim isn’t sure. He’s seventeen and has had just as many hours to learn every nuance of his husband’s character. To say Jim is as clueless now as he was four days ago is an understatement.

Truthfully, he’s even more confused.

It isn’t disobedience that keeps every muscle in Jim’s body tense, it is fear. It is sheer terror. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want this warlord inside him.

"Please," Jim whispers, but his plea falls on deaf ears.

Every inch burns Jim from the inside out, setting his nerves on fire until clawing his nails into the soil becomes his only relief. The Khal— _Leo_ , Jim forces himself to remember, trying to convince himself of their non-existent intimacy—grunts from behind Jim. It makes him feel vulgar. Filthy.

And then Leo is finished, and he withdraws, and Jim is left sticky with sweat and come.

—

The rest of Jim’s days as Khaleesi are as long as his first, and they all end in the same way.

Although, it does get easier. Jim is able to brace himself against the familiar sting and he finds his body loosening around the familiar girth of his husband.

But they are still dark moments for Jim. Dark moments that cannot be illuminated by the animated stories of his waiting women or by anything he rereads from his collection of books.

There is some small sunshine to be found in his new companion. The little yellow lion cub reminds Jim of his childhood: a canine pup that he and Sam followed around the castle when they were boys. The lion is heavier than the dog had been but he is even more loyal. He growls at the Dothraki and climbs into the Khal’s bed at night—when his strong, muscled arms are wrapped around Jim’s waist—and scratches at his shoulders.

"I will tie that little beast in irons if it doesn’t learn its place," Leo growls into the darkness.

"His name is Lannister," Jim whispers, chiding. But there is a small smile on his face. He turns over, chest to chest with Leo, and pulls the cub into his arms. "It’s okay, cub, he’s safe."

But the cub continues to growl—granted, it is slightly more playful now—and snaps his little jaws at the Khal, sending Jim into a fit of laughter.

"Even animals should respect their Khal," Leo mutters, setting two fingers on the lion’s muzzle to keep himself from being bitten. "You should train him better."

"He does not need training," Jim counters. "He just doesn’t like you. You can’t be friends with everyone, you know."

"Hmm, very funny."

"Just one of my many virtues," Jim agrees, although his voice sounds hollow now.

"Get on your knees," Leo murmurs, "and we can explore your virtues further."

—

"I feel like an animal," Jim explains, looking from Nyota to Gaila and back again. "I don’t even think—I mean, uh—I’m not really sure _he_ even enjoys himself all that much either."

"He doesn’t want to fuck a corpse, Khaleesi," Gaila says gently. "He wants you to be receptive to him, and he wants _you_ to enjoy yourself also.”

"It hurts," Jim hisses.

"Have you been preparing yourself? We have oils to ease the way, to relax you inside. If you prepared yourself, not only would it be better for you, but perhaps he would feel less like he was taking you against your will and more like you are a married couple. Khal and Khaleesi," Nyota suggests.

"I—" Jim doesn’t know what to say. But he will try it, he will try anything. This is his life now and he needs to make the best of it.

"Learn to be a lover, Khaleesi," Gaila encourages, with a smile, her red hair and brown eyes glinting in the warm Spring sun. "It may prove a handy tool one day."

"Draw me a hot bath," Jim directs—although it sounds less like an order and more like a question.

"I’ll get the oils," she agrees, nodding excitedly.

"And perhaps you should make him have you a different way," Nyota suggests. "Give him something different. And something more intimate for you."

"What if he doesn’t want _different_?"

"Why else would he have chosen you?"

—

Jim returns to his tent bathed and smelling of fruits only grown in Essos, orange and yellow fruits that smell sweet and sharp at the same time. He imagines it will make his skin taste zesty. He hopes the taste is addictive. He has prepared himself with the oils under Gaila's direction; he is open and relaxed and he tries to remember to breathe—Nyota has told him the breathing is important. The oils Nyota massaged into his shoulders and thighs were heated and, as a result, he feels boneless. He feels as if he could, indeed, lie back in the mess of fabric that coats the bed and happily give himself over to his husband.

He wonders for a second whether he is drunk, but his eyes still see too clearly, his mind still works too sharply. But his hands do not shake. His breath does not catch. He feels alive, he feels confident, as if he has broken through the bars of the cage that had come down around him. He is Leo's Khaleesi. He is second in command of the most powerful khalasar ever to walk on either continent.

And tonight his come will stain their sheets. His roar of pleasure will flood the camp and leave every Dothraki desperate with envy. He will make love to his husband tonight, and, for the first time in their three weeks together, they will both enjoy it.

He drapes himself on the bed, sending Lannister off to sit in his basket—a bed of hard silver and plush velvet—and then Jim does the only thing he can do: he waits.

—

The ghost-touch of fingertips along his ribs is enough to wake Jim from his light slumber. He snaps open his eyes, panicked at first, but quickly eased by the sight of hazel eyes, flickering like flames in the lamp-light. Ready to consume. Jim is surprised at the feel of his own nakedness laid out on the silken sheets, like a gift, until he remembers it as his own doing. He shivers now, though, and, even though there are many fires lit around camp to keep the Dothraki warm in these chill-biting nights, goose flesh is raised all over his skin. Leo tries to chase the cold away with his huge palm, rubbing circles over Jim's back and shoulder blades.

"Turn over," Leo huffs, his breath hot on Jim's cheek.

"No," Jim whispers. Leo's hold tightens on Jim's forearm, lips pursed tight as he takes in the apparent refusal. Jim sooths the discontent with a chaste press of his mouth to the Khal's cheek. "Lie down. I am Khaleesi now. I am Dothraki, by spirit if not by blood. We are riders," he continues, lips now tantalisingly close to Leo's ear. "Let me ride."

Leo's eyes are a mix of confusion and disbelief, awe and desire. If Jim thinks about it, this is the way Leo always looks at him. But something has changed.

Leo lies back against the covers and helps Jim straddle him, cradling Jim's pale thighs in his hands. The Khal gently pulls his nails over Jim's hips and flank. The pulse jumps in Leo's throat, and Jim watches as his Adam's apple bobs. Anticipation and excitement.

Surprise is next. Leo's mouth forms a perfect 'o' when Jim's slick hole engulfs him, and Jim, too, is left reeling from the surprise of his own pleasure lighting sparks inside him. Sparks that pop repeatedly and Jim cannot help but rock back and forth, eager for more.

"You ride well," Leo gasps.

Jim laughs, a small sound but one that is carefree—the edges curling with glee. "I have a good saddle."

They laugh together then, hushed only by the press of their lips, which also serve to stifle their moans. Jim presses his nails into Leonard's shoulder as he bucks, faster and higher, relishing in the sound of their skin slapping together. Mixed with the gasps and groans leading up to their orgasms, it becomes the sounds of a celebration long overdue.

But any good celebration is one worth waiting for.

—

Jim opens his eyes to the darkness of the tent, not yet illuminated by sunlight. Lannister has strewn himself over Jim's calves, and, to Jim's surprise, Leo's too. The cub snuffles in his sleep and bats a paw against his nose. Jim watches the lion dream in amusement for a few moments before he turns to the Khal, waking him with a kiss.

"James," Leo whispers, smiling. Although he has not yet opened his eyes.

"I want to watch the sunrise," Jim murmurs. "And then I want you to have me again, while the sun is still young."

"You've changed your position on the matter quite drastically," Leo notes, but his voice is not unkind. He sounds almost intrigued. Asking the questions of how and why without ever sullying his masculinity by giving them breath.

"I have found the change of position quite enjoyable," Jim says with a smirk.

The Khal pulls Jim forward into a kiss, tongue tracing Jim's bottom lip before exploring his mouth. Jim isn't sure how long they stay like that, bodies and tongues entwined, but they miss sunrise. And morning prayer. They almost miss the high noon sun until the lion cub—who becomes less _cub_ and more lion with every passing day—grows weary of their kissing and tugs one of Leo's hands away from Jim with the pull of sharp canines, placing himself on Jim's lap to the only response Jim is capable of: laughter.

—

A month after Jim is first handed over to the Khal, he is reunited with his family in the capacity of consul. They meet in the throne room, Leo's skin painted with dark black marks that speak of his status as Khal and Jim clad in leather britches and a loose cotton shirt, the velvet cloak tied over one shoulder and secured under the opposite arm. He does not look Dothraki, although his skin has began to darken from increased exposure to the sun—he is truly sun-kissed now, glowing ethereal like a gift from the Gods, not the fruit of a mortal woman. The new ruddiness that has spread over his cheeks and shoulders provides endless amusement and pleasure for Leo, who provides a valiant attempt to sooth the hot skin with tongue at least twice, nightly. The spattering of freckles, too, is new. Jim almost doesn't recognise himself in the mirrored walls of the consul's ready room.

"I look filthy," Jim chuckles.

"You look golden," Leo corrects. "And pink," he whispers, hiding his smirk against Jim's neck, pressing a kiss into the skin.

"You'll smudge your paint," Jim whispers.

Lannister growls, warning Khal and Khaleesi of the intrusion of visitors into their private space.

"Jim!" His mother, brother, and his brother's wife, Aurelan, have come to greet him. "It's so good to have you home," she gushes, stepping forward to hold his face in her hands. "You're taller, broader, growing before my eyes and I'm missing it all."

"We're only staying for the festivities this evening. We return _home_ tomorrow," Jim says gently, extricating himself from her grip.

Winona throws a furtive glance at the Khal and leans forward, her mouth at Jim's ear, "are you happy?"

Jim just smiles.

Lannister attempts a roar as the King enters the room and the Kirks startle at the sudden appearance of the lion, who had hidden himself under the four-poster bed.

"Guards!" George shouts.

"Lannister, heel," Jim chides, grinning at the cub walks towards him, tail hanging down between his back legs.

"The beast is yours?" George asks.

"A gift," Jim nods, looking back at his husband.

"A lion cub," Winona says, confused.

"A daily regret," Leo mutters, scowling at the creature even as it snaps its jaws.

Jim laughs and kneels to scratch behind Lannister's ears. "You love each other, really," Jim teases.

"We _tolerate_ each other," Leo huffs. "For your sake."

George clears his throat and Jim looks up at him, the playful moment between him and Leo now shattered. George has confusion in his eyes. All the Kirks do. Jim is supposed to be miserable—or at least that is how Jim imagines they believed he would be—but he is not. He has adapted and evolved and now he is falling in love. Perhaps George sees that as a betrayal. Jim prefers the harsh touch of his Dothraki lover to the familiar presence of his royal family.

"Your Grace," Jim greets formally—finally—standing and inclining his head respectfully. "As consul, let me extend the gratitude of our people. You have kept us well tended with food and supplies and—"

"James," George interrupts. "You need not be so formal. Walk with me."

Jim turns towards Leo, touching his fingers to the paint on the Khal's forearm. "Lannister, stay." He eyes the lion who chuffs and butts his head against Jim's calf before jumping onto the bed.

"Send for me," Jim murmurs, kissing Leo's cheek. "If you need to."

Jim isn't sure how safe the Khal is in this castle. Regardless of what alliance his father has intentions of forging for the summer, Jim can't shake the feeling of darkness that rocks through him as he begins to retread these old halls.

"You're happy?" Is the first question George asks.

"You're surprised?" Jim counters.

"I—I was unsure how you felt about keeping the company of men. Of a man. Especially a—"

"Dothraki king?" Jim supplies.

"A savage."

"You ought to give your allies more credit," Jim states. "The Dothraki are no more or less savage than those residing under your rule. Our customs are different."

" _Our_?"

"The Dothraki are my people now, father. I am their Khaleesi."

"A female title," George grits out.

"A title they respect. The only title I have."

"You are a Prince here; you always will be."

"To the people in this castle, I am just a consul," Jim refutes. "So let us talk matters of State."

—

When Jim returns to his quarters he is confronted with the sight of his husband atop the covers of the bed playing tug of war with the cub. Leo is grinning at Lannister who is licking the Khal's hand just as much as he is tugging at the knotted length of rope. Both stop dead when Jim taps his knuckles against the doorframe.

Lannister growls and Leo taps him on the muzzle. Jim shakes his head, whispering _liars_ with a smirk plastered across his face. The cub seems to sigh, realising they've been busted, and slumps down onto Leo's chest.

"He's... loyal," Leo says by way of explanation, threading his fingers through the young lion's meagre main.

"A valuable trait to have in a pet." Jim eyes them both with amusement before he unties the cords of his cloak and begins to ready himself for the evening's ball.

"Do we have to attend?"

"The feast at least." Jim nods. "We can sneak away before the dancing.

"Take your clothes off," Leo instructs, voice low, so low it makes Jim's stomach coil with anticipation. Husky and dark, sinuously winding around Jim's body, luring him in.

"There isn't enough time."

"Then we will arrive late."

"Punctuality is polite."

"But I'm a savage," Leo grins, the curl of his lip is almost feral and Jim's hands itch to pull away his clothes. "We know no politeness."

"You're going to get me into trouble," Jim says, pulling his shirt over his head with a smirk.

"Let me show you the merits of trouble."

—

Winona raises an eyebrow when Jim and Leo enter the banqueting hall. Lannister trots behind them like a loyal dog and sits proudly beside Jim when he takes up his seat opposite George.

"Tardiness is unbecoming of a consul," Samuel notes, sneering at his younger brother.

"I had very urgent matters to attend to," Jim says gravely.

"I'm sure," Sam smiles tightly, eyeing the Khal with something akin to disgust.

"Samuel," Winona warns carefully.

Jim knows his husband could cut the head from his brother's shoulders with minimal effort but he hopes Sam will be able to hold his tongue long enough to prevent such an outcome. He and Sam were close once, before Sam became consumed with ideas of kingship and rule. Before power became more important to him then brotherhood.

"Let's eat, shall we?" Jim says, quickly curling his fingers around Leo's thumb, trying to settle the tension before taking a long gulp of wine.

—

The paint feels thick under Jim's fingertips; gloopy and warm in the sunshine—although not as warm as Leo's skin. The runes Jim draws onto the Khal's chest, the swirling lines and sharp numerics, stand out against his bronzed skin, like black tar on sand.

"Will I ever wear these marks? Will you ever paint me with the history of our people?" Jim asks, breaking the stillness of the room.

They are lying naked together in the bed provided for them by their host; Jim is being careful not to spill the paint from its container but the remnants of last nights markings have already smeared against the fine sheets.

"You already wear marks," Leo points out, pressing his lips to a bruise he sucked into Jim's neck just one night gone.

"I'm being serious."

"Your skin should not be tainted with black oil." Leo shakes his head.

"I'm not allowed, am I?" Jim asks. "To wear Dothraki markings. Because I was born in King's Landing and have no claim to Dothraki customs."

"I married you, James. You are my Khaleesi. Our people would die for you." Leo's voice is earnest, fervent bordering on inflamed. "But you cannot wear the paint of war, because a Khaleesi does not fight."

"She bears sons."

"I will not have you speak like that."

"Why would you want me?" Jim asks, curling away from Leo, unable to bear the Khal's brutal gaze. His voice is bitter, and he feels numb. His blue eyes hollow. Life carved out of them like the succulent flesh is carved from fruit rind. "What am I able give you?"

"What you have always given me: love and honour. Your body and your soul."

"But not a child."

"I do not want a child. The only thing I have ever wanted was you. And I am grateful to the Gods that they answered my prayers."

Leo pulls Jim towards him, the paint of his chest smudging against Jim's arm and then his own chest. Leo's breathing is heavy, almost laboured. He growls, pulling Jim's chin towards him so that they are eye to eye. Unavoidable. Jim watches as the Khal dips two fingers in the dark liquid—his middle and index—before drawing a symbol in the hollow of Jim's throat. Then Leo's fingers slide down the centre of Jim's chest, cutting him in half in broken swirls; dots and dashes.

"You are more than a womb, you are more than a mother. You are James, Khaleesi of the Dothraki warriors whose horses braved undrinkable water so that their Khal could find you. You are a gift from the Gods. A golden mane and a lion's heart. And you will always wear my marks." Leo swipes his two fingers over Jim's left pectoral. "It is here, even when the ink fades. I am always here," he promises, pressing his fingers over Jim's heart.

—

The following evening Jim and Leo are set to return to the Dothraki camp, but George invites them to stay a few more days. _Before you go forward on your travels_ , he says, but Jim isn't sure if he wants the Khal around for a few more days so that he may better flatter him into a happy alliance or whether it is because he would like more time with his younger son. Leo is currently being held up in the throne room to discuss hunting tactics, so Jim is inclined to think the former.

"Little brother." Jim looks up to see Sam's smiling face. "I wanted to apologise for yesterday. I acted out of turn. You're my brother, but you've been gone so long from the castle it was easy for me to forget that."

"It's okay, Sam," Jim says, forgiveness springing from him as easily as rain does from a black cloud. Perhaps it cleanses them both. "I know it must not be easy."

"I only want to see you happy. What wasn't easy was not knowing if you would be."

"I am. Rest assured."

"Even though you lie with a man?"

"It is not uncommon for men to do so, even in Westeros."

"But you know what we say about those kind of men," Sam whispers.

"Perhaps you should try it before you part take in whispers," Jim jibes, smirking at Sam's look of horror. "I will not comment on your bed behaviour if you do not comment on mine," Jim offers.

"Deal."

They laugh together then, reunited. Jim lets Sam pull him closer, slapping him on the shoulder. "I have missed you, I am glad father would keep you here longer."

"Honestly," Jim whispers. "I am eager to be moving. The men are restless in the camp, especially without their leader."

"They do not begrudge him time with his Khaleesi? Or time spent making a strong alliance?"

"They do not. But we live a nomadic life. Too much time in one place is stifling. _I_ especially can appreciate that."

"Let us go outside then," Sam encourages with a fond smile—a smile reserved for little brothers—directing Jim towards the courtyard. "We have much to catch up on."

—

Leo curls a finger around a lock of Jim’s ever-growing hair; it sticks up oddly at the front, in tufts, like an adolescent lion upon the first glimpse of his mane.

“Your father has asked me to give you leave to stay here,” he murmurs, leaning forward to kiss Jim’s shoulder. “Would you have me grant such request?”

“You know I would not.” Jim turns to his husband, eyes slitted slightly, brows almost furrowed until he cocks one. “Why would you ask such a thing. You should already know my answer.”

“I was… afraid. That you had suggested the idea to him. That you wished to stay here. With your family.”

“ _You_ are my family. Our khalasar is my family.” Jim’s voice is gentle, but he speaks with conviction. Rubbing a hand across Leo’s chest, Jim turns and presses his head to Leo’s shoulder. “You have to trust that I am happy here with you.  I would not change it for all the world.”

“I told him I would not be parted from you, and that the khalasar need their Khaleesi. I told him we leave tomorrow and we will not return for many months. I was selfish,  saying so and not knowing whether you would want to leave or not.”

“You knew,” Jim interrupts softly, eyes smiling. “In here,” he pauses to lay his hand flat over Leo’s sternum, “you knew.”

“You are my Khaleesi.”

“Always.”

—

The khalasar are glad to have their Khal and Khaleesi back with them, riding at the head of their troop, leading once more. There are murmurs among some of the men, that their Khal has already shown how much of a weakness his castle-bound alliance is. But the murmurs are quashed when Leo mounts his horse, body painted with thick black swirls, Lannister striding, proud, alongside his Khal. Although it is Jim’s appearance that startles his Dothraki kin as well as the people of King’s Landing that line the streets to bid him farewell: his chest adorned with a leather breastplate and dark steel sleeves encasing his forearms. Leo ties a length of silk around Jim’s upper arm and secures it with a thin length of silver chain.

Leo’s smile is blinding. Proud and fond, content and ready for action.

“Your hospitality will not go unforgotten,” Leo promises Winona, who is the only Kirk present in the courtyard. Sam has already said his goodbyes but has been called away by his wife’s attendants, and George—George still sits on his Iron Throne, bitterly licking his wounds. He has not regained his son; he is no longer the King  that reigns over the young Prince. The young Prince is a Prince no longer. He has no King. Only Khal. And he is Khaleesi.

Jim shakes his head, looking up at his father’s tower. He is acting like a child who has had a toy—a toy they hadn’t cherished before, but still refuse to let others play with—taken from him. Jim is glad this is no longer his world.

“Mother,” Jim murmurs, kissing her head before mounting his horse. “We will be back soon. Try not to worry about us.”

“You are always a main concern of mine, James.”

“I will make sure to mind myself well,” Jim promises.

“And I’ll aim to help him in his endeavour.” Leo takes Jim’s hand and smiles at his mother-in-law.

To both men’s surprise, she smiles back.

“I did not want your men on this isle,” Winona admits, eyes stern— _burning_ , hot like fire—and chin raised, almost defiant. Of who? Jim could not say. “I called you savages and I meant it.” The Queen looks down and sighs. “I see I was wrong. You are an honourable man, and you love my son.”

“He is my Khaleesi. To Dothraki, love is not a choice, but a privilege. I owe your husband more gratitude than I could express, for granting me the blessing of your son’s companionship.” Leo swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Perhaps, to the eyes of the Westerosi, we are savages. But even the wildest of beasts look after their kin.”

“You are not a beast,” Jim says, voice gentle.

“Ride safely,” Winona urges. “Come home to me.”

“We will return before the trees are back in full bloom.”

“I will have summer wreaths made in your honour,” Winona assures him.

Jim nods, turning to Leo as their horses trot towards the gates of the city. A cold breeze blows as Spring consumes the air and Jim hears the rustling of petals. A young girl is throwing them in the path of the horses. She is grinning wide, missing her two front teeth. Her curls are bright red, like autumn leaves and smoldering flames.

Jim is tempted to wrap himself in his velvet cloak, but he is eager to build resistance to the cold, especially now that he rides without shirt and waistcoat.

 _Summer._ The mere thought of it settles Jim; soon the last bite of winter will be soothed by the long days of the sun and the Dothraki can sail back to their Sea. But now, they head south. To wander until their lands are fit to live upon once more.

A wave of ease washes over Jim. He tilts his head back to breath in deeply, smelling primrose and spices from the market. He can smell dirt too and tree bark.

A sharp snap pulls him from his reverie. From beside Jim there is a wet sound and a grunt.

 _Leo_.

Jim turns his head just as the Khal is slipping off his horse. He can hear screaming. It takes him a moment to realise it is his own throat working the violent pitch. One of Leo’s commanders try to help Jim as he dismounts his horse. Jim shrugs away, ignoring the low sound Lannister makes as the King’s guard approaches.

“Leo,” Jim grits out. His knees scrap along the gravel. Blood is bubbling out of Leo’s wound. “Send for a physician!”

Jim sets a hand on Leo’s chest, stemming the blood. “Snap the arrow,” he orders, Nyota suddenly beside him. “But do not pull it from the wound.”

Nyota follows each of his orders, setting the bright red fletching down on Leo’s chest.

“That is one of my father’s arrows,” Jim whispers, looking back up at his father’s tower, catching sight of a blond head before it flees, disappearing into shadow.

Jim can’t breathe. Can’t think. His hands are wet with blood—thick and crimson—and his husband’s chest is clenching and quivering as he tries to put pressure on the injury.

“James,” Leo breathes. “My lion.”

“Don’t talk,” Jim counters. “We’re going to fix you. Be strong for me.”

“For you,” Leo agrees— _promises_.

“I need a _physician_!” Jim screams.

—

The next few hours are slow and strange. The khalasar split: one half fight for a place as Khal, some fight for Jim’s right to claim the title. The other half attempt to storm the castle; they butcher the King’s guard. They carve through knights like butter. They scream for vengeance.

Jim is still knelt on the ground, clutching his lover. The arrowhead is buried under Leo’s heart. Removing it risks nicking the heart, causing him to bleed out. Leaving it in encourages infection. King’s Landing is being brought to its knees and Jim is sitting under the stars praying to Gods he does not understand, in a language that he still finds difficult at times, begging them to release his husband from darkness.

Sam’s hand on his shoulder startles him. Gaila and Nyota are ushered into the castle. Jim is only held up by Sam’s vice-like grip.

“No.” Jim tries to claw away from his brother. Leo. He needs to be with Leo.

“My men are bringing him on a stretcher. Lannister too. Chapel will treat him.”

“Father tried to kill him,” Jim hisses. “This place isn’t safe for us.”

“Father has locked himself in his tower room. His guards have him kept safe. I tried, Jim. I tried to stop him. I didn’t think he would do this, not today. I thought he was going to let you go.”

"I want to see him, I want to look into the eyes of the man who tried to take my husband from me and I want to see guilt in his eyes. I want answers," Jim demands.

"I cannot get you to him, Jim. His men will not have it. I will not make brothers fight brothers. Even the men who remain loyal to us, and to our alliance with the Dothraki—I would not have them fight against father's guard. I will not have more lives lost."

Jim sighs, nodding his understanding. Sam is trying to keep it together, Jim thinks his eyes look worn in the few short hours since George Kirk buried an arrow in the husband of his youngest son.

Leo’s body is brought up alongside them on a stretcher; people already fussing over him, a mix of Sam’s guards and Dothraki soldiers. Jim’s heart sinks at the sight of his husband’s pale face, torso smeared with blood.

“I need him to live. He’s my life, Sam,” Jim whispers, closing his eyes. They’re making their way through the bowels of the castle, being led to the quarters of the Keeper of the Cells. It’s safe, at least. Sam is trying to keep them safe.

“We’ll save him,” Sam promises, kissing his brother’s forehead.

They get Leo settled in a bed and a young female, known only as Chapel, gets to work on his wound. She snaps orders at Nyota and Gaila and the three of them work efficiently while Jim sits, visibly shaking, in the corner of the small bedroom.

“Where’s our mother?” Jim asks, voice hollow.

“I got her inside before your men began their rampage.”

“I will not apologise for their loyalty.”

“I would not ask you to.”

“They will kill him, Sam. Father, I mean. If they find him, they will kill him.” 

“I know.”

—

Jim opens his eyes to the feeling of Lannister’s wet nose against his hand. It brings a smile to Jim’s face until he notes his dark surroundings, the flicker of candle-light and the huge stone walls. Leo’s eyes are closed as he lies in the bed, but his chest still rises and falls.

Sam is nowhere to be found but there is a side of parchment on the dresser explaining that his absence will be short lived. Nyota is lying on the sofa against the opposite wall, Gaila is sitting on the edge of said sofa threading her fingers through Nyota’s dark hair.

Gaila smiles at him, but there is sadness in her eyes.

She thinks Leo is going to die. Jim doesn’t have to be a seer to know that is what lies in her heart.

But she is wrong.

Leo is Khal of the most formidable khalasar either side of the Dothraki Sea. He is the lion-lover and his heart beats as strongly. He will survive because he has made an oath, an oath to be by Jim’s side until they are old and unable to ride, until they can retire to the sands or meet a glorious death together on the battlefield.

He will not die like a raven shot in the morning sky.

He will not die like a beast.

—

On the third day the castle is silenced. Leo’s second-in-command helps Sam drag his father from his tower. His tongue is cut out and his hands are cut off. Jim is led up the stairs and into the harsh morning light. He views the blood with mild distaste. He looks down at his father like the traitor his is and cuts the hair from his head. Sprinkling it in the wind like gold coins for the peasants.

The loyal Dothraki cheer and laugh. Jim notices their numbers are fewer than before.

Sam hands Jim a sword.

Jim curls his fingers around the gem encrusted hilt, it's cold against his skin. His heart is pounding.

His father looks terrified.

He doesn’t look as guilty as Jim thought he would. He just looks like a man, tufts of hair missing from his bloody scalp. He mouths words that Jim cannot decipher through the tears that well in his eyes. He remembers learning to hold a bow, his father standing behind him. He remembers that day, not so long ago, when George told him to _be brave_. And Jim will be brave now, for his husband.

Jim inhales.

The swipe is clean, and the thud of his father’s skull on the ground is dull. Jim almost doesn’t hear it over the sound of his own pounding heart.

Jim bows his head before Sam.

“Your Grace,” he murmurs, feeling strangely numb, but righteous, before handing Sam back his sword.

Sam is smiling, almost crudely.

“Return to your husband, brother. I will sort through these matters of State.”

Jim blinks. His words catch in his throat. Stifling him. Strangling him.

“ _You,_ ” is all he can say.

“Get back to your husband, Jim,” Sam urges. “I’d rather not have to hurt you. Although I would be in my right to. You did just murder a King.”

Jim doesn’t feel righteous anymore.

“Your khalasar weren’t all as loyal as you thought, Jim. They wanted out from under their Khal, decided he was too distracted by a pretty blond cock. And so here you are. I hadn’t meant to make it such a good shot. I just wanted to take him down. Give the Dothraki a chance to leave. They have paid me their allegiance, Jim. And now I am King. You will remain as my hand. We will be brothers again. And, if he survives, you will train your horse-lord for Court.”

“You have it all worked out,” Jim murmurs. Inside he is burning, like a lion lying out in the long grass, baking in the high noon sun.

“To a tee,” Sam agrees.

“And what of my remaining Dothraki?”

“They will pledge fealty or they will be slaughtered.”

“Let me speak with them, first. Please, your Grace,” Jim adds courteously.

“The same is true for you, Jim. And your husband, should he wake.”

“I am your Hand,” Jim states, raising his chin, though his eyes remain blank, devoid of any trace of _fealty_. “And your brother. You will always have my loyalty.”

“Even though I attempted to assassinate your husband?”

“May I have leave to go to him?” Jim asks, voice tight, trying so hard not to be abrasive.

“Blood before bonds, Jim,” Sam reminds, kissing his brother’s cheek. “See that he is comfortable. He will be made a Lord. I can’t have my Hand married to a savage.”

Jim bristles at the word, he wants to growl. He wants to roar. His heart is racing.

“He will not acc—”

“ _James_.”

“Of course, your Grace,” Jim whispers, seemingly defeated. “And we receive it as an honour.”

“As you should.”

—

Jim doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand why his father hid in the tower if he was innocent. He doesn’t understand how his brother could have conspired such a plan, entrapping them all in a web of lies; weaved from blood, weaved from disloyalty.

And Leo sill does not wake. Lannister is outstretched at the end of the bed, like a guard dog.

He grows bigger with every passing day. Leo will be surprised when he awakes. _When._  Not if. Jim will not give up hope.

“The wound festers,” Chapel explains. “I have tried to break the fever but—”

“Try harder.”

—

Jim watches Samuel, King, as he sits upon the Iron Throne. He looks to his mother and sister-in-law. He feels immeasurably stupid. Immeasurably guilty. Winona shifts, writhing like a small girl in an ill-fitting dress. Hatred and dismay burning in her eyes no matter who she looks upon. 

“James,” Sam says with a smile. “I am sorry to hear your husband still fares no better.”

“We are trying to break the fever. You buried the arrowhead quite deep, your Grace.”

“I am a very good shot.”

"You are," Jim agrees, pursing his lips to stifle a sneer.

 _But I am better,_  Jim thinks. Seething. Jim has not practiced with a bow for many weeks but it is a skill he could not easily forget. He fingers know his arrows, they adore his bow. Sam thinks he has won. He thinks that with a crown on his head and _your Grace_ tacked onto his address that he rules over them all. He thinks Jim’s tight smiles mean that Jim is afraid. That regardless of Jim’s true loyalty—for Samuel would never be so stupid to acknowledge that the polite game they share as brothers is anything more than a charade—Jim will behave himself for the sake of his husband and his remaining people.

To an extent, Sam is right. Jim is in a tight position. He has attempted to settle the Dothraki while their leader is lying bedridden, he has attempted to keep at least one eye on Leo’s person as often as he can. But Jim is just one man. One man trapped in a castle trying to keep his Khal’s people alive and safe. Trying to urge his Khal back to life. Trying to brace himself, trying to figure out how he is going to tell Leo that three quarters of their khalasar have abandoned him for a more able-bodied leader.

Jim decides he only has himself to blame. He should have been more wary of Sam. Sam who was always driven by his destiny as Heir. Always fixated on power.

Jim was a Khaleesi. Now his khalasar has disbanded, his Khal is dying and he is bound to a castle he has no place in, a castle whose foundations he desires to see crumble. Jim is standing on a cliff’s edge, looking over into a turbulent ocean. All he has to do now is decide whether he must jump or not.

_You are my Khaleesi._

_Always._

—

“James.” 

On the morning of the six day, when just the scullery maids and kitchen hands are starting to arise for their early rounds, Jim’s waist is encircled by a warm arm. His nape is kissed.

On the morning of the six day, when their dungeon rooms are darker than dark without the aid of candlelight, Leo’s fever breaks and the God’s allow him back into this world. The world of the living. A world where he is reunited with Jim.

Lannister whimpers from the floor next to Leo’s side of the bed. Jim can feel Leo press a smile into the spread of skin between his shoulder blades.

“I feel lost,” Leo whispers. “We are not in camp.”

“You were hurt,” Jim says, turning carefully so that he is chest to chest with Leo. Eyes searching out those of his love in the darkness. “We are in the castle.”

“The khalasar?”

“You could not ride,” Jim whispers, voice weak, splintering like rotten wood.

Leo gently knocks his forehead against Jim’s. “It was in their right.”

“They abandoned you,” Jim grits out. “They will never have my forgiveness.”

“Khaleesi,” Leo whispers, lazily kissing Jim’s cheekbone, wincing when he tries to move his chest.

“Stay still.”

“What happened,” Leo asks. The one question Jim dreads answering. “Tell me everything.”

But Jim has never been able to refuse his Khal anything, and, even without a khalasar, Leo will always be Jim’s Khal.

So Jim recites their story, and begs for forgiveness.

—

The King is told of Leo’s steady recovery and, on the first day he is able to stand unaided, he is brought before the Court and told to pledge his allegiance, announce his subservience, kiss Samuel’s coronation ring and the crest of his cloak.

“Then we will cut your mane,” Sam says, almost gleefully. “You and all your Dothraki kin. Because we are the lions here,” Sam announces, looking from his mother to Jim, who stands at the side of the hall wanting nothing more than to rip his brother’s throat out. “And even we do not wear our hair like savages.”

“And it is your custom, is it not?” Aurelan adds. “To cut your braid when you have been defeated.”

Leo eyes darken. The air changes and Lannister growls at his King and the insolent Queen. The room tremors, like it is being hit with the aftershock of earthquakes. Or maybe that is just the tremor in Jim’s hand as he tries to maintain control. Leo breeds danger into the walls with his silence. The guards hold their crossbows on him.

Jim hates the indignity, but he prays his husband will yield.

Although, Jim cannot recall ever witnessing a wild thing yield.

Some of the Dothraki kneel behind Leo, giving him their support and saving themselves from death. Others do not. They stand, as Leo does, and they are shot for their defiance.

Leo turns his head to glance at Jim. They share something deep and gut wrenching before Leo descends onto one knee. Sam stands with a smile, clapping slowly. Teasing an already wounded animal, aggravating his temper, irritating and abrasive. Jibbing and mocking.

Leo’s hands are bunched into fists at his side.

“I am ready for your oath, savage.”

Jim steps forward, chest heaving. Ready to rage.

“Brother,” Sam warns, eyes flicking to his Lord Commander who stands to the left of Leo, sword ready.

Jim’s footsteps do not waver.

“I give you _my_ allegiance,” Jim grits out. “And I promise the same of my husband.”

“I would hear him speak his own words.”

“Oaths are different for ou—for Dothraki. Please, Sam.”

“Your Grace,” Sam corrects.

“My _King_.”

Jim sees Leo’s eyes close at those words, jaw clenching.

Sam sees it too and he grins like a lecherous old man in a whore-house, too many loose bodies for the taking. All his. Lascivious and greedy.

Sam smears the lingering war paint on Leo’s cheek, before unsheathing his dagger and severs his braid.

Jim catches the whimper before it escapes the confines of his throat. 

Lannister growls from his perch beside where Jim had just been stood.

“Keep your _kitten_ on a leash, Jim,” Sam warns. “It would be a pity for it to get hurt.”

“His name is Lannister,” Leo says, looking up at Sam with loathing in his eyes.

Leo is backhanded for his trouble. Jim is just strong enough to keep Leo on his knees while Sam strides back to his throne.

“Please,” Jim whispers and he feels the fight die inside Leo, leaving his husband oh so still.

“You will take the remainder of your men and women,” Sam begins. “You will move into Lord Archer’s manor on the south side of the city.”

“That _manor_ was a brothel.”

“It is big enough for you and your slaves.”

“They are _not_ slaves,” Jim grits out.

“Get out.” Sam smiles, like he is a child moving porcelain figures around a map, knocking them into one another until they threaten to shatter. “I will see you here when the Small Council meet tomorrow morning to discuss the celebrations surrounding my coronation. Lord Commander,” he motions to the man stood to the left of the throne platform. “Escort my brother and his husband to their new accommodation; see that they arrive safe and sound.” 

—

The manor is probably the only premise in the city that would be near vast enough to house the eighty-seven Dothraki that remain alongside Jim and Leo. It feels strangely intimate; Sam has explained that the twenty-thousand Dothraki that rode out on the day of Leo’s _misfortune_ rode under four different Khals. No doubt they would have fought along the roads to the Vale. No doubt many of them will now be dead. Many of those who remained on the city outskirts the first night—or were among the few hundred who attempted to storm the castle—did not have the longevity of spirit to trust that their Khal would survive. With their numbers dwindled to less than a thousand Jim feels less and less like a Khaleesi and more like a common man betrayed in the market for the price of a stale bread loaf.

 

Although, Sam has been thoughtful in some ways: this house is the only one in the city that Jim could comfortably see his people residing in—if any set of four walls could ever be said to hold any Dothraki _comfortably_ —with its open doors and huge, arched windows, with the sand blowing in from the courtyard and the trees providing shade for the horses who refuse to reside in the stables. The rooms are open, foyers leading to parlours that lead to sitting rooms, long wide halls that have many bedrooms on either side. Voile curtains billow. Jim can smell the rose bushes and the pear trees.

But Leo says nothing. He orders his people into various places, the wives to choose bedrooms and the men to gather beside him in the only room in the house with no windows: the wine cellar, hidden in the depths of the house, down dark stairs.

Jim is not invited.

Lannister sits beside him, loyal as always, and Nyota brushes his hair.

“Cut it,” Jim says, voice numb. “I am no longer a lion.”

—

Jim is lying atop the covers when Leo finally returns to him that evening. Jim watches him putter about their new bedroom for a moment before he sighs. He scrubs a hand over his eyes, guilt-drenched eyes, and watches Leo strip, settling on the edge of the coverlet. Jim sits up, stretching his arm out to rub wide circles into Leo’s back.

Leo doesn’t flinch, as such, but Jim can feel the tension. Disgust and loathing radiate from him in waves, and although Jim may not be the cause—or the intended recipient—he can’t help but feel disgusting and loathed.

“I’m sorry,” Jim murmurs. “This is all my fault.”

“I have suffered many indignities today.” Leo pauses, turning his face until Jim can see the profile of his face, sharp, square jaw and high cheekbones. He is speaking in Dothraki, refusing to sully himself with the common tongue of Westeros. “But you are not one of them. You never will be.”

“The khalasar, your men—”

“Deserted me because I was no longer fit to be their Khal.”

“Your hair…”

“I see you have sheared your own mane, my lion.”

“I am not a lion. I am not a Kirk. I want nothing more to do with them. With Sam. How could I have been so stupid?”

“Love and fear blinds us all. But you will always be golden, James. You will always roar with the heart of a lion.”

“Nyota would not cut the top,” Jim says with a small smile.

“She knows I like how it falls forward. The sun against the too-blue ocean of your eyes.”

“I thought I had lost you,” Jim whispers; unable to convey the sentiment in Dothraki, his mouth slips back around the shapes of a more familiar vernacular.

“You did, for a moment.” Leo nods, turning until he is knelt on the bed facing Jim. “But I am back now, and I promise you that the ground of King’s Landing will shake under our revenge.”

Jim doesn’t know why, but the promise of war settles him.

Jim rises up onto his knees, face to face with Leo. He presses two fingertips to Leo’s lips, holding them there until Leo purses his lips, tongue darting out to lick over the digits before letting them slip from his mouth. Taking Jim by the waist, Leo leans in for a chaste kiss, but Jim doesn’t want chaste, not now that their war is on the horizon, not now that Leo is alive and well and regaining strength in his muscles with every breath.

“Fuck me,” Jim demands, spilling the words into Leo’s mouth with a sloppy kiss, digging his nails into his husband’s chest.

Leo half-grunts, half-moans at the order, pushing Jim down onto his back, slipping his hands—scalding hot—under Jim’s thighs, hitching them up closer to Jim’s chest. Leo leans over to the edge of the bed where Gaila has left them several bottles of scented oils, stolen from the castles. Leo makes his hand slick, reaching for Jim.

“No,” Jim whispers, shaking his head. Leo frowns, confused. Jim rolls over, onto his hands and knees, arching his back until his spine is dipped obscenely. “I want you to _fuck me_ ,” Jim repeats, looking over his shoulder with a coy smile.

Leo sets his a hand on Jim’s hips, sliding the other between Jim’s ass cheeks to the taut ring of muscle, coating it with the gloopy liquid.

And they fuck. It burns and it is rough. Jim clenches deviously and Leo bites red marks along his shoulders. They grunt and they growl and they gasp. They come.

And the night turns to morning. Leo pulls Jim into his arms so that they may watch the sunrise, pink roses and blooming lavender paint the canvas of the sky. Leo whispers his promises to Jim, promises of revenge, of vengeance, of salvation for his family and his birthplace. The sun God will not let such a bitter darkness reside on the throne for long, not with summer gathering on the horizon.

The throne needs shining gold, bright and beautiful. This dawn marks a new Era. However, it is not Samuel’s reign that the Sun God has scattered fresh petals for.

No, it is Jim’s.


End file.
